Sunday, April 29, 2007

Procrastinating Polly

I'm deviating (a nicer word than procrastinating) from studying for my finals tomorrow by posting this short little diatribe.

At the bottom of my blog, I have this little green button; called "site meter." One of the many handy things that it provides is a listing of how people came to my blog. If someone were to search for me using Google, Msn, Yahoo, or any other search engine, it tells me which engine they used and what keywords they typed in.

That said: ewwwwwwwww.

To the person who came to my blog while searching for "8 year old sluts;" I have nothing to say.

To the person who came to my blog while searching for "daddy's and girls naked;" again, nothing to say you freaking pervert.

Mostly, people search for "naked women" and they get my blog. THIS IS NOT A PORN SITE!

Although I do have to say that I'm quite pleased to have surpassed porn. And Hank Williams Jr.


However, "pussy sluts naked" and "fucking naked women drunk" and all the other wonderfully colorful search terms that brought you freaks here, this is not a porn site. By all means, feel free to peruse through the blog; but don't expect any pictures.

That is all,

P.S> The dancers drove me CRAZY this weekend. More on that later.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

When It Rains

Oh, Dear Readers, Saturday night was an awful night!

It didn't help matters that I was cranky; quite possibly the crankiest I have been in a while. I don't really know what put me in such a bad mood, I think just the pressure of finals (next week) and all my papers due (this week) was wearing on me, and I was not in a good mood. Apparently, misery does love company-- and most of the customers were jack asses as well.

The night started off dead. Dead dead dead; and as any server worth their salt can tell you- they would rather be slammed and weeded all night long then have a small trickle of people coming in every once in a while. I just couldn't get the motivation to work hard (not that it was particularly needed, mind you) and it made matters worse that I really didn't know anyone that was in there.

Usually my bar consists of 75% or more of regulars. The rest of the people are random- frat boys, guys getting off work, and people just driving by and deciding to stop in. There were NO regulars Saturday night and it was pissing me off. Not only that, but the few people we did have in there were disgusting.


Trailer trash, hick town, cheap motherfuckers; and they all seemed to be perpetually perverted. And cheap.

I can handle perverted as long as you are tipping me. I can fake it for the few hours you spend in my section, as long as you're making it worth my while. I can smile and fawn while you sexually harass me, as long as you're paying my bills.

On the other hand, I can handle cheap as long as you keep to yourself. If you want to sit alone in a corner and drink your beer by yourself without tipping me- that's fine. You leave me alone and I will continue to bring you your beer without making a snide comment about the fact that you're cheap.

When you put the two together, that's what pisses me off. Not only are you cheap, sitting there, looking anxious as you wait for your quarter change from your $2.75 domestic beer. Not only am I standing around while you count out nickles and dimes to pay for it; but you want to make some comment about my ass, or about how you would "love to take me home," or some other generic line that probably took your dumb ass two hours to come up with.

It really pisses me off.

You see, there's a subtle exchange that happens in the titty bar between the customers and the dancers and wait-staff. An "invisible bidding war" if you will; where the dancer/waitress decides how much shit she will put up with based on how much money is being handed over. It works somewhat like this:

If you stiff me on a drink, I will give you one more chance. Possibly, you didn't realize you hadn't tipped me, or maybe you just thought I took my tip myself (some people think this). If you stiff me on the second time, I will make a comment about it in a joking manner. Usually "darlin, you know you're going to tip me, so why are you making me stand here?" If you still refuse to tip me, one of two things will happen: 1- I will continue to wait on you (if you're sitting alone), but I will wait until your drink is empty and you are waving the bottle around like a flag; or 2- I will make your ass walk to the bar. Most people tip automatically; however, so this doesn't happen often.

If you tip me a dollar on a beer or a drink, I will pay attention to you. I will pat you on the head, maybe squeeze your shoulders a few times. I will come up with some pet name for you, and check on you often. If you make some perverted comment, I will probably laugh it off.

If you tip me more than a dollar on a beer, I will learn your name, and use it when I come by the table. I will hug you, possibly kiss you on the cheek, and try to make you feel special. I will remember what you drink and offer it to you before your last one runs out. If you make some perverted comment, I will come up with a witty response that will make you laugh, and wink at you so you know that everything is o.k.

If you tip more than that, and I'm talking about the guys who run tabs and tip me upwards of $50 to $100; I will not only remember your name, but I will find you a table. I will have your drink ready the minute I see you walk in the door. I will sit at your table with you, ask you how your day/job/wife/kids are doing. I will have a drink with you, and if you want a certain dancer, I will go track her down for you. I will remember your birthday, holidays, etcetera; and sometimes I will buy you a card on these occasions. I will give you a back massage when I'm not busy. I will remember/put up with your slight neurosis, and do my best to cater to them. I will let the dancers know you are there, and soon they will be filling your table, hanging on your every word. If you slap me on the ass, I'll let you get away with it. Soon, other customers will be looking at you, wondering what makes you so special to be treated in such a manner. Basically, you will be treated like the king of the titty bar.

Does everyone understand how that works?

Say what you will about it, that's how the system works. Attention and privilege go to the highest bidder. Such is life.

Back to Saturday night.

EVERYONE was cheap Saturday night. I wasn't making any money, the bartenders weren't making any money; hell-the dancers weren't even making any money. It was shit.

Early in the night I had one guy who was tipping me a dollar on his beer. I checked on him, and after a while a girl showed up and sat at his table with him. She ordered an amaretto sour, possibly the most pussyfied a drink can get; and I brought it to them.

"What is this?" she asked, pointing at the glass I set in front of her.

"An amaretto sour," I responding, while counting out change for the twenty the guy handed me.

"But, where are the cherries?" She seemed confused, looking from the glass to me and back to the glass.

"We don't have any cherries," I responded, turning to leave.

"But I want cherries," she whined.

I shook my head and walked off. This is a titty-bar, bitch, I thought to myself, there's not a fucking cherry in this whole place.

I told you I was cranky.

I saw my friend Alfonzo walk in the door. Finally, I thought to myself. Someone I know.

He came up to me, asked me where I had a table open, and after I pointed him in the direction of a high table against the wall, I ordered him a crown and coke.

"Want to have a shot with me," I offered, setting the drink on his table.

"Man," he said, "I was drinking before I got here."

"That's okay," I responded, "I was drinking before you got here too."

He paused for a minute as he chewed this over, then started laughing. "Sure," he said, "bring us two jager-bombs."

I brought the shots and waited on him a few more times before he told me he had to leave.

"I've got to go pick up some friends of mine, but I'll be back," he said, while putting his lighter in his pocket.

I headed up to the front door to call Boyfriend and lament on how shitty my night was, when the cherry girl and the guy she was sitting with walked out of the front door.

"Hey honey," I said into the phone, nodding goodbye at cherry girl as she walked out of the club. Suddenly, she turned and headed back into my direction.

"Hey," she said, interrupting my conversation. I turned the mouthpiece of the phone into my neck and looked up at her. "My brother really likes you. What time do you get off?"

I held up my left hand and splayed my fingers apart while I pointed at the ring on my finger. (I tell people I'm married- they don't hit on me as much that way.)

"Five?" she said. "Okay, I'll tell him to call you."

"What was that?" Boyfriend asked me into the phone.

"Fucking idiots," I responded.

A little while later, Alfonzo came back, this time with a guy and a girl. They took a seat in my section and I went to get their drinks. When I came back, I stood next to Alfonzo and made small talk.

The guy he was with, a younger guy, moved his chair so he was sitting directly behind me, and started making noises.

"Mmm," he grunted, "look at that ass."

I turned to face him.

"Stop that," I said.

He didn't stop.

So, I slapped him in the face. I didn't slap him hard, just kinda pushed his face with my hand.

I told you I was cranky.

"Go get me fucking beer," he responded after I hit him.

"Get your own fucking beer," I retorted.

"You're going to make me walk to the bar when you're right here?" He seemed amazed at this breach of protocol.

I just looked at him, and he decided to flip me off.

So, I cut him off. I told Alfonzo that although he was my friend, I wasn't above having his friend kicked out. Alfonzo promised to make him behave, and I went to the DJ booth to bitch to CEO.

"Stop dancing," CEO shouted over the microphone to the girl at stage two. She was sitting on her boyfriends lap and grinding. She looked up at the DJ booth, and then started grinding again.

"Don't fucking look at me and then start dancing again. Stop fucking dancing!"

She wouldn't stop, so CEO took the cordless mike and headed out of the DJ booth. He walked right up to where the couple was sitting and leaned down, microphone in hand.

"Hey, YOU!" He said, and the girl snapped her face around. "Stop fucking dancing!"

As he turned to walk back to the DJ booth, she flipped him off. Then she started dancing again.

"Ok, Duke," CEO said over the mike. "Kick them out."

Duke led both of them out the front door. A few minutes later, I saw Champ, Glen, Pierce, and CEO all head out the front door.

I bet they're fighting, I thought to myself.

I was wrong, sort of.

The guy that the girl was dancing on decided he didn't like being kicked out of the titty bar. He decided it was a good idea to take the trash cans we keep outside and dump them onto everyone's cars. Then he threw the trash cans at CEO's truck. We called the police.

I decided that was my cue, and asked to leave.

"That's fine," CEO said, and I headed out the front door to my car. Back to my home, back to Boyfriend, where I don't have to pretend anymore.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Overheard In The Titty Bar

Girl 1: What are you doing? You don't smoke!
Girl 2: I only smoke when I drink.
Girl 1: That makes no sense.
Girl 2: Yes it does, it's like the pooping and peeing thing.
Girl 1: The what?
Girl 2: Yeah, it's like, I can pee without taking a shit, but if I'm pooping, I'm going to pee as well.
Girl 1: Ewww.

Guy 1: So, I heard from Jamie the other day.
Guy 2: Dude, I heard she's got, like, five STD's.
Guy 1: Yeah, I think she's up to genital warts now.
Guy 2: I'm glad I fucked her a few years ago!

Dancer 1: So, has anyone ever come on you?
Dancer 2: No, how about you?
Dancer 1: I almost had someone come on me.
Dancer 2: How did you know it was almost?
Dancer 1: I could feel it throbbing. That's how you know.

Guy 1: So, how are things with Christy?
Guy 2: Oh, they're good. She's already let me put it in her ass, like, twice.
Guy 1: Wow, you guys haven't been seeing each other that long.
Guy 2: I know man, I wasted, like, three years on Michelle and only got to put it in her ass once.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

The Three Pendejo's

Let me begin my giving you all a rather upsetting piece of news. Savannah is gone, has been for about three weeks now. Her mother was in a terrible car wreck and she had to take off to go take care of her. We don't know if she's going to come back or not, so we've got Ellen filling in on her spot, and our new bartender, Kit, is taking over Ellen's spot.

That said, this last Saturday night was crazy busy. It was standing room only in the titty bar, and I haven't seen that many people packed in there since we opened. Usually on the weekend we'll be moderately busy, with mostly regulars and a few college kids peppering the tables and chairs. Not this weekend.

What bothered me the most was this group of rather large people standing in front of stage one. None of them were drinking, either; so they were basically there just taking up a lot of space. Not only that, but they were apparently suffering from a rare form of specific blindness, which made them able to see the dancers and each other, but not a waitress carrying a glowing tray full of drinks. Finally exhausted with screaming "EXCUSE ME!" at the top of my lungs, I started just bumping into them. Luckily, they were still in possession of their sensory feelings, and noticed cold beer dripping onto their arms/legs/whatever was closest. Eventually they left.

The evening began rather slowly, with Queenie and I playing a game of pool in the back. After I narrowly beat her (she scratched on the eight ball) we made our way back up to the bar to have a shift shot (for good luck) and smoke a cigarette before the crowd hit. As we were making out way across the bar two rather large Hispanic men were walking in.

"Hey," the big one said, grabbing my arm as I walked past him. "You gonna buy me a drink?"

I just gave him a look and carried on with my business. As I was walking away I heard him make the same offer to Queenie, who politely declined. Luckily for me they took up root in her section, and were no longer my problem. Ahh, the luck of the draw.

Later in the evening a group of couples walked in the door and took up residence at two of my tables. I noticed them, but was a bit wary of waiting on them. No offense to any of the women who read my blog, but women in a titty bar can be a detriment to the establishment. Earlier in the week this Gentlemen (ahem) with two ladies got a beer from Ellen's bar. As he went to put a dollar in her tip jar, one of the girls he was with grabbed it out of his hand.

I made my way up to the table, located next to the front door, and noticed the large Hispanic man from earlier sleeping in his chair. I nudged him, mostly to move him out of my way, and he didn't stir.

I'd like to say this isn't common in my bar, but I'd be lying. People fall asleep in a titty bar more than any other bar I've ever worked at. At least two or three times a night we have to wake someone up, and sometimes carry them outside. Last weekend, while I was sitting at the bar, a man fell OUT of his chair and onto the floor. Really classy, let me tell you.

I made it up to my table, and they all wanted beer. I shoved the sleeper out of the way again, and made a mental note to tell CEO to get him out. When I took the beers back to the table I was surprised in the fact that the women not only paid for them, but tipped me a dollar at least for each beer. It appeared that my night was looking up.

I made my way up to the bar again, this time for some shots for me and CEO. There was a really big man standing at the server station, and I saddled up next to him so I could order my drinks.

This man was BIG. He was about 6'3, but he was muscular as hell. He was wearing a button down the front shirt, and when he stood up straight, the buttons strained against the fabric, threatening to rip apart if he took in a deep breath.

"Hi," I said, looking up at him, "I'm waitress, what's your name?"

"Trent," he grunted, looking around the bar.

I took the shots to CEO and noticed that Trent had sat in my section, next to the sleeping Latino, and in front of the couples group.

I made my way back to the group of couples to check on them.

"How y'all doing?" I said, grimacing at myself for the poor grammar.

"Can we get another round?" the man sitting closest to the door requested.

I was turning to head back to the bar when the woman sitting next to me grabbed my arm. She leaned in, conspicuously, as she pulled me towards her.

"It's my husbands birthday today," she said, pressing her fingers to her lips as a motion for me to keep my voice down. "Can you do anything special for him?"

"Well," I said, "we can put him on stage for fifty dollars."

She reached into her purse and pulled out two twenties and a ten.

"Don't you want to know what we do to him when he's onstage?" I was a little shocked, most women don't want their husbands being danced on by thirty women while on public display.

"Oh, honey," she started, "I danced for fifteen years. There's nothing you can do to him that I haven't seen before."

"So that's why you all are such good tippers," I said, the light finally coming on in my head.

She gave me a wink and handed me the cash. "His name is Steve, just take care of him tonight for me."

"Only if you promise to take care of him when he gets home," I said, returning the wink. She grabbed my ass as I headed back to the bar.

I got about three steps when I felt someone grab me by the wrist. Hard. I looked down to see Trent, holding my wrist in one hand and his Coors Light the other.

"Can I get you anything," I said, as I attempted to swivel my wrist out of his grip. This merely caused him to clamp down tighter.

"You," he said, staring up at me.

I laughed and turned to walk off, but Trent wouldn't let go of my wrist. Instead, he boomeranged me back to his chair.

"What do you need," I said, the pleasantries in my voice replaced by annoyance.

"Bring me two more beers," he replied, finally letting go of my wrist.

Somewhat shaken, I headed up to the bar to get the beer. After dropping them off, I took the fifty dollars to the front door, and then let CEO know we had a birthday in the house. He was busy adjusting the spotlight so it fell on the sleeping guy.

"Hey Buddy," he yelled over the microphone, "wake up!"

"I don't think it's going to work," I said, "I've pushed his chair half a dozen times and he doesn't even stir."

I made another round and went back up to the bar. Queenie was standing there as well, and in front of us were two people: one of the girls from my birthday table, and some guy I'd never seen before.

"Oh my God," Queenie said, "can these people move?"

"Yeah, no shit," I offered, "I have drinks to run."

Practically before I could get the words out of my mouth, the girl from my table flung her draft beer all over the guy next to her.

Well, mostly on the guy next to her. The other half went all over Queenie.

"What the FUCK! What the fuck was that?" Queenie was pissed, the hair on the left side of her head was matted down with Miller Light.

I stared, slack jawed, as I tried desperately to suppress a giggle. Meanwhile, Ellen was handing out bar towels for the wet and embarrassed to mop off their shame. The culprit had made her way back to the table by then.

I looked at Ellen, and she made a "cut-off" motion at me. I headed back to my table to make sure the girl was ok. She was bawling.

"What the hell happened?" I asked, leaning my head down so I could be eye to eye with her.

She was sobbing, bawling uncontrollably.

"I just," she said, in between sniffles and guffaws, "I just love him so much."

I looked at the other woman, the ex-stripper, and she nodded at me. I took that to mean I could go on about my business. I turned to leave and almost fell over into the lap of the sleeping Hispanic man. Again, he had managed, somehow in his slumber, to roll his chair directly into my path.

"That's it," I muttered to myself, and went to get Duke and Raymond to take him outside.

As I made my way back to the bar (routine dominates my life at work) my wrist was again assaulted. I didn't have to look this time to know it was Trent.

"What can I get you," I said, peering down at him sitting in his chair.

"You," he again replied.

I rolled my eyes and attempted to walk off again when I was suddenly yanked backwards, this time harder than before, and I ended up in his lap.

"Buy me a beer," he demanded, a glassy look in his eyes.

"You're kidding me," I joked, attempting to squirm my way off of his lap.

"No," he said, grabbing my waist with his other hand, "buy me a fucking beer!"

"I'm not buying you a beer, Trent," I responded, feverishly looking around the bar for someone to notice what was going on.

Trent took his hand off my wrist and grabbed my face, squeezing his thick fingers into my cheeks. "All this damn money you've made off me tonight and you're not going to buy me a beer?"

"Let me go," I managed to get out, even though my mouth was being squeezed shut.

"Buy me a beer," he returned, and I think I noticed a slight look of amusement in his face.

"You're hurting me," I said, and he finally let go of my face. I scrambled out of his lap, but he still had control of my wrist. As I tried to walk off, he tugged a few more times before letting go.

I headed to the front door to tell Raymond what was happening.

After I filled him in on the details, he went out into the club and sat down at a table behind Trent. I grabbed another drink from the bar and headed back into my section.

As I walked past Trent's table, he flipped me off. I threw him a look, and, as if on cue, he grabbed me by the wrist.

In lightning speed Raymond had him around the neck.

"Let go of my fucking waitress," he growled at him, squeezing.

His friend jumped up and started at Raymond, but Duke grabbed him as well.

I hurried off behind the bar, where I could watch what was happening while still being out of the line of fire. Queenie came up to me.

"Have you seen Raymond," she asked, pulling her money out of her pocket.

I pointed to the other side of the bar, where Raymond was carrying Trent out by the neck.

"Why, what's up?"

"Oh, the pool table is stuck and I need to get the key from him."

We have pay pool tables, where you put a dollar in quarters in and the balls come out. Sometimes one ball will get stuck in the process. Rather than waste another dollar on the game, we just get the key and get it out. Pretty simple.

I headed back out to my abuser-free section, and over to the birthday table.

"Do you know how much longer it's going to be? We've got a limo outside," ex-stripper said, stroking my arm.

"Not off the top of my head, but I can go find out for you," I answered. I turned to head to the DJ booth when CEO beat me to it.

"I hear we got a birthday in the house," he yelled over the microphone. "Where's Steve?"

I shot ex-stripper a wink and headed back to the bar. I noticed Raymond and Champ hauling some other guy out and saw Queenie crying at the side of the bar. As they were carrying the guy out, I heard him scream "fuck you" a few times before the door closed behind him.

"What is going on," I asked, putting my arm around Queenie's shoulders.

She paused to wipe her eyes before she started in. "Remember when I told you about the pool table?"

"Yeah," I said, fumbling in my pocket for a lighter. "Was that the guy?"

"No," she snuffled. "That guy came up and put another dollar in the machine. When I went over there to check on them he got in my face and started yelling 'You owe me a dollar! Where is my dollar, bitch?'"

"No shit," I mused, taking a drag off my smoke.

"So I told him, 'I told you we'd get the pool table fixed, you didn't have to put another dollar in the machine,' and he said 'Give me my fucking dollar,' so I said 'I'm not giving you a fucking dollar,' and I headed back to the bar but he started following me!"

"You're kidding me," I exclaimed, shaking my head.

"Yeah, so I get up to the bar and he's right behind me, screaming 'Where's my dollar! I'm going to kick your ass if I don't get my dollar! Give me my fucking dollar!'"

"Jesus, Queenie," I said, "what did you do?"

"Well," she said, "luckily for me Champ was right there and he jumped in the middle of it." She paused, looking up at me with watery doe-eyes. "It's been a hell of a night for me."

"Me too," I said, musing. "You want another shot?"

Queenie nodded, and I nodded at Ellen, who started making the drinks.

All in all, it was a crazy fucked up night. When I figured it up, I made about 63$ an hour that night, and I worked eight hours.

Not too bad, I suppose, I just could have used a little less drama.


It's strange, I was reading a book called Nineteen Minutes that I picked up at Barnes and Noble the other morning when I heard about the shooting at Virginia Tech.

This may serve to give away my location, but my state, as well, has been affected by school shootings. It was many years ago, but I can remember the tragedy and strife that tore through our state and neighboring communities.

I can only pray for the families of the victims. I hope we all will.

No matter where you are from, what school you graduated from; today- we are all Hokies.

My love is with you, Virginia Tech.


Wednesday, April 04, 2007

It's A Man's World

I live approximately forty-five minutes away from State School. I was about fifteen minutes into my drive on Monday when I heard this rather peculiar noise coming from the right side of my car.


Yes, that was it, and it was vibrating. I was sure that I had gotten a piece of trash stuck in my rim or something, so when the noise stopped I didn't think anything of it.

Then my steering wheel started to shake.

"No problem," I thought to myself. "I'm sure it's just my alignment or something."

I drove on to school and competed the day without any thought to the matter.

On the way home, my steering wheel was shaking so badly I could barely keep the car on the road. When I let go of the wheel it jerked the entire car to the right. Again, I was not concerned, having just put a new rim on my car I assumed that I just needed to get my alignment checked.

You guessed it readers-- that "PTHHB" noise I heard on the way to school was my tire being blown out. I drove almost an hour on the rim.

Now, it is a well-known fact around my friends and family that I despise dealing with "car-people," and I'll tell you why.

A few years ago I blew out the transmission in my car. Apparently if you don't change the oil ever it can cause some damage. This little tidbit of information aside, I took it back to the dealer to have it rebuilt. Two weeks later they called and told me I could come pick up the car.

I gratefully gathered my car from the dealer, took it home, put the ignition in park, and turned the engine off. When I went to pull out the key- it was stuck. I tried jiggling it, tried cursing at it; hell, I even tried turning the engine on and off-- no luck. One of our bouncers used to work for an auto parts place, so I asked him what the problem may have been. He told me that it was my linkage.

Apparently (and this is all second hand information), there's this thing called a linkage which attaches your gear shifter thingy to your transmission. When they took my transmission out to rebuild it and put it back in, they didn't adjust the linkage properly.

I called the dealership and told them I needed them to adjust my linkage. I took the car back to them, and three days later they called me.

"Miss Waitress," they guy from the dealership said, "we think it's your starter."

So, they changed my starter, charged me a few hundred for it, called me two days later, and I went and happily picked up my car.

I drove the car home, put it in park, turned off the engine, and attempted to pull out they key.

Yupper, the key wouldn't come out.

I called the dealership again, told them they needed to adjust my linkage. I took the car in and four days later they called me.

"Miss Waitress," he said, "we think it's your ignition switch."

So, they changed my ignition switch, then they had to change my locks because they key wouldn't match, charged me a few hundred for it, called me two days later, and I went and picked up my car.

I drove the car home, put it in park, turned off the engine, and attempted to pull out the key.

Guess what, kiddo's?

No freaking key.

So, I called my Dad, filled him in and he called the dealership for me.

He took the car in, and they called me later that day.

"Miss Waitress," they guy said, "we think it's your linkage."

I. Shit. You. Not.

When all was said and done, thanks to my Father, they refunded the price of the starter, ignition switch, and re-keying.

So, back to Monday. My Dad went and picked up my tire. And they charged him $20 less than they quoted me on the phone.

Bloggers Are People Too!

I need to rant, Dear Readers, so I would ask you all to either look away now or enjoy the ride.

I am SICK!

I am so pissed I want to SPIT!

I'm used to being dehumanized at work; it's part of the environment. People (men mostly) have no qualms asking me "when do you go on stage," "how much do you cost," and the like.

However, I take it in stride because (in all honesty) these people pay my bills...

Assholes out there in cyberland; however, do not.

I am sick of all the negativity that is flowing through the blogs lately. Approximately one tenth of my comments are "u r a whore" or "sex workers = whores" or something similar. These comments I can chalk up to ignorant pre-pubescent teenagers, and not become too offended by them.

THEN you have the asshats. The "I know grammah more than you know grammah" who insist on publishing comments for the sole purpose of pointing out when you misspell or error in your linguistics.

For proof, go check out Secret. He's had a hard few posts. I'm warning you now, I wasn't very nice to these people in the comments, so if you would rather not have your image of me as a sweet southern (albeit Jewish) girl destroyed-- don't go.

I am aware of Freedom of Speech. I am also aware that everyone is entitled to their opinion. However, there is a line of tact and good taste. These bastards who get off and make themselves feel better by putting other people down are crossing that line.

Thanks for letting me rant,

P.S. Do you notice how most of the asshole's are anonymous? If you're that proud of your opinion, wouldn't you sign your name to it?

Monday, April 02, 2007

Ode To The Drunk Girl Asleep In The Bathroom:

I must say, I was not shocked at all
To find you lying face down in the stall.
Having too much to drink
May have caused you to think
That it seemed a good place as any to fall.

Rather than composing yourself with some style
You preferred to suck-face with the tile.
Although it seemed rather funny
I needed to make some more money,
So I decided to leave your ass in there a while!

Maybe, to yourself you said,
"I just need a place to lay down my head,"
But unless you're a mare,
(Or you really don't care!)
The stall is no place for a bed.
Free Counter
Web Site Counters